


Not for Naught

by deferney



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deferney/pseuds/deferney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I. An older Lip Gallagher is usually a smarter one; he hasn’t spoken this erratically against a guy twice his size in at least a year.<br/>II. Living at the Milkovich house had worked for the first eight months. And then Terry had been let out of prison, and the Gallagher house was full once more.<br/>III. When she finishes inhaling, before she can cough, Mickey plugs her nose. “Now breathe in through your mouth.”<br/>IV. Fiona’s calling it his “Debbie Moment.” It’s a two-year strong “Moment” he’s having.</p><p>The Middle-Child Gallaghers in all their glory; not the most impressive, but they're working on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not for Naught

I.

It takes him until junior year to catch up to college life, but he finally fucking does it. At 20 years old, Lip Gallagher is officially able to make money in college, instead of losing thousands through student loans. It's not making up for all the shit he'll be paying back until he's 60, but it pays for a laptop, thank fuck.

During this perfect moment in his life is when the worst possible person enters it: Ava Trent.

Tuesday afternoon began like any other; wake up, wank off, wolf down a granola bar, walk to the library. There, he meets Tristan Leonard like he does every second Tuesday of the month, with the guy's 15-page paper in hand. And everything is going fine and dandy, until he's only got $175 in return.

“Tristan, what the hell man? We agreed on two hundred per paper.” He did Tristan’s paper for American Film Studies in between classes last month, and expected the payment for the paper this week. It was a good system; anyone who didn’t repay him got ratted out to their professor. Easy shit.

Tristan is not the dumbest person he’s ever written a paper for--in fact, the guy is pretty intelligent. He works two jobs, though, while somehow managing to maintain a 2.5 GPA. Mostly because Lip is basically taking his AFS class for him. Now, the six-foot-nine stress addict stares down at lip with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, you also promised me a ninety or better.”

Well, shit. “You didn’t get at least a ninety? Are you kidding me? Your paper was on the lack of representation of female minorities in the acting industry how could you get anything less th--”

“I got a ninety-five.” The idiot barks.

Wait. What?

“Then why the hell are you jipping me like twelve-percent of my profit? That paper didn’t just fall out of my ass, dickwad.”

An older Lip Gallagher is usually a smarter one; he hasn’t spoken this erratically against a guy twice his size in at least a year. Doesn’t mean he won’t do it now, not when he’s being blatantly stolen from for no apparent reason.

“I only got a ninety-five after Ava looked over it. She found, like, six grammatical errors and three incorrect facts. I was only going to take off two-dollars per screw-up, but she said twenty-five to round it nicely. I should’ve given her more since she strengthened your conclusion, too.”

Okay, hold the fuck up. He was high when he wrote most of it, sure, but he wasn’t that high. Not six grammar errors and multiple false facts and a weak conclusion? Hell no.

“Yeah, right, buddy. I’m pretty sure your little side-bang was just trying to squeeze some money out of you. My paper was perfect.”

Library table, meet Lip Gallagher’s face. Lip Gallagher, meet library table.

“First of all, _buddy_ , she’s my half-sister. Second of all, she didn’t even ask for the money. I had to sneak it into her wallet. I don’t even look over your papers usually, but she found it and had nothing better to do and ended up _fixing all your screw ups_.”

This doesn’t even make sense! He’s never had a complaint from a client before. Especially not from one whose sister is supposedly perfecting his work.

“Look, Tristan,” and maybe he shouldn’t use the patronizing tone because his collar just got uncomfortably tight against his very fragile neck. “I have an IQ of 200 and I read textbooks on quantum physics in my spare time; I don’t really think some dinky sibling of yours really fixed that much of my paper.”

And then he heard a new voice. Low, raspy, kind of smirky. Like if Mandy Milkovich had a cold. “Congratulations, Brain Boy, you’ve got a higher ranking than me on the Genius Totem Pole. That doesn’t mean you can’t make mistakes, asswipe. But it apparently _does_ mean you’ve developed an unnecessarily high level of self-assuredness and self-righteousness. Your humility is impressive, honestly. I’m sure it’ll get you far in the business world.”

Directly across from his head, which is still shoved against the table, is a pair of tits. Directly above those tits is a span of freckles. Not freckles like Ian has, though--Ian’s freckles kind of look like crumbs from stale bread thrown on a white sheet. These freckles look like chocolate sprinkles on a coffee-icing-covered cake. And above the freckles that he’s definitely not thinking about licking is a sharp jaw and plump lips, a button nose, and two starkly uninterested, hazel eyes.

Before he can respond, Ava smiles at him, slamming down a stack of papers right next to his face. He might flinch.

“I figured you to be that kind of person, though, so don’t worry--I made you a copy with all your mistakes highlighted and fixed. Even wrote the sources for correct information in the margins. I don’t really care that you screwed up my brother’s paper. I think--” this part isn’t directed at him “--he should be writing them himself.”

He’s let up now, rights himself slowly, like he isn’t freaking out a little bit, and straightens his shirt. She continues talking even as she walks away. “I care more about you being the ‘Resident Genius’ around here without being able to completely live up to your claims. If I can find your mistakes with my measly IQ of 175, then so can the professors. Try not to fuck up next time.”

Lip watches her walk away, completely unsure of how he managed to get dissed without speaking, once, to her.

Tristan doesn’t let him get away with that. “Well?”

Bravado retrieved, Lip glares at him. “Well what? If it’s that much of a problem you should just have your fucking sister write your papers.”

Tristan shrugs like he’s actually considered it. That’s unacceptable; Tristan is one of his most reliable clients. A hundred bucks once a month goes a long way in the Gallagher household.

He sends half of all his profits back home. Between Liam starting school, Carl and Debbie growing out of their clothes every month, paying for Ian’s meds, paying bills, occasionally bailing a Gallagher out of prison--he doesn’t like to admit it, never wanted to feel like he was going to be Fiona’s replacement when he was old enough, but he’s got to help out family. It’s in his blood to take care of his own.

“She would,” Tristan answers. “But she’s trying to catch up. She’s only a Freshman and she’s got a lot on her plate so--”

“Are you telling my sob story again Tris?” She’s leaning against a bookshelf, her expression unamused.

Her brother looks uncharacteristically guilty. “Sorry.”

Ava rolls her eyes. “Shut up, asswipe. You’re buying lunch now, so hurry up. I’ve got class in an hour.”

With that, just as whipped as any guy is to a girl who is inexplicably important to him, Tristan is walking away. “I’ll email you my next assignment tonight, Gallagher. And she’ll be checking it to make sure you got your shit together this time.”

 

II.

“So now I have to write a perfect fucking paper or she’s just going to keep calling me an idiot.”

Ian Gallagher loves his brother--he really, honestly does.

But sometimes, he really, really hates him.

“You called me at two AM to complain about the female version of you? No offense, Lip, but you kind of sound like an idiot.”

Ian’s honest seems to seep into Lip’s brain enough to make him realize how stupid he sounds.. “Well excuse me for wanting to update my brother on my college life in the hopes of reminding him that college **is still an option**.”

“I barely got my GED. And that was only to satisfy Fiona. And you barely survived your Freshman year yet you want me to try? Sorry, who do you think you’re talking to? Do I suddenly sound like your fifteen year old sister?”

Across the kitchen counter, Mickey is cleaning his gun. Ian likes to watch his fingers and imagine them wrapped around his dick. It doesn’t help that Mickey is so much smaller than him and it’s kind of a turn on. Not that he would ever tell Mickey that.

“Sorry for wanting you to amount to something more than a fucking convenience store clerk, Ian.”

Okay, boner gone. Thanks Lip.

Mickey glances up from the task at hand to see Ian’s exasperated expression. He takes the cue, one he’s accustomed to, and snatches the phone from Ian. “Look, Gallagher, I’ve got a Redhead to blow before I go to bed and you’re killing the mood--bitch about your higher education at a reasonable hour.”

Then he hangs up, and Ian kind of falls in love with him a little bit more.

“You know it’s amazing to me that people actually thought you were ever straight,” Ian smirks, leaning across the counter.

Mickey isn’t amused. “You know it’s amazing to me that you haven’t been shot in the fucking mouth yet, Firecrotch. Go upstairs before I blow you in the kitchen and Carl’s wheaties get--”

“Okay Mick, I’m going, I’m going.” So he kisses his boyfriend and he goes up to their (previously Lip’s) room to prepare for a goodnight hummer. And, okay, it’s been a long day. So maybe he falls asleep before Mickey comes upstairs.

But it’s not a reflection of their relationship. He’s just really tired, is all.

When he wakes up, a very naked  Mickey has an unlit cigarette between his lips while he dries himself off with an amusingly bright pink towel. His clothes are thrown over Ian’s body.

“Are you still mad about last night?” Ian asks.

If Mickey is still mad, Ian knows all he has to do is squeeze in a quickie before work to be forgiven.

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever man.”

He grabs a water bottle off the dresser and throws it at Ian’s head--Ian, who barely moves in enough time to avoid a bloody nose--swears at his boyfriend.

“Just take your fucking meds,” Mickey snaps. And he gets antsy if Ian hasn’t taken them within the first hour of waking up, so he does.

The meds started off making him feel like he was dying. Monica used to describe it like that, and growing up he always thought she was just using it as an excuse. But he understands now. Not that he excuses her for abandoning them. He’s pretty sure he will never forgive her for that. No matter how many gay clubs she takes him to.

Over time he’s gotten used to the meds--has decided that this feeling is better than how he feels when he sees Mickey in his peripheral vision, constantly hovering over him like his parents should’ve. On some levels it’s reassuring to know that Mickey cares about him and is worried about his mental health; on other levels it frustrates him and makes him feel like a child.

Mickey works at  the Alibi Room as a cook, much to the dismay of Veronica, but Kevin needed the help and Mickey was there every day anyway to ensure the efficiency of the brothel. When things get tight around the house, or when it’s close to someone’s birthday and Mick wants to get them a nice gift, he’ll do a run with his brothers--unbeknownst to his father. One condition Fiona had when he officially moved in was to keep his criminal activity low and far away from the Gallagher household; the only one that was actually surprised that he did it was Fiona.

“When do you get off today?” Ian asks, stretching across the bed, very similar to a starfish.

Mickey is slipping into his boxers as he speaks. “Depends on when Kevin decides to wake up from his Barbie Dream Makeover House.”

Ian laughs. “You’re just jealous.  Don’t worry, Mick, one day we can have our own little rugrats ruining our sex lives.”

“Speaking of kids,” Mickey responds. “We’re watching Eugene tonight.”

And before Ian can he respond, he continues, “Besides, when did we decide we were having kids? We have got way too much shit to figure out before we even think that far into the future.

“For example,” he points toward their closed door where, just outside of it, Debbie and Carl are arguing over whose turn it is to use the bathroom.. “Getting the hell out of this house.”

Living at the Milkovich house had worked for the first eight months. And then Terry had been let out of prison, and the Gallagher house was full once more. Ian’s been saving up to get out of here; privacy is basically impossible to find, and it’s a necessity in their relationship.

Mickey’s gone half an hour later, a rolled pancake leaking syrup sticking out of his mouth as he sticks his cheek out for Ian to kiss goodbye.  And with Mickey gone, Ian’s routine begins.

There’s a six-mile run and two hundred pushups and a lot of bacon involved in the morning routine. And then he walks to the Kash-and-grab because of course Linda took him back after completely fucking up his life in typical Gallagher fashion.

Every day that he walks there he looks for work anywhere else in Chicago. Anything legal that isn’t stripping has got to be better than what he’s doing now--working the same job he’s been working since he was fourteen, getting yelled at by Linda about the same things every day, pushing the same drunk off the sidewalk by the store every day, **going through the same motions every day**. There’s got to be something better than that.

And Ian isn’t sure if he’ll find it in the Help Wanted sign stuck to the inside of a bakery--but if he doesn’t go to work because of it, then Mickey doesn’t have to know.

 

III.

Right, okay, so she stole from Mickey. It's not like he needs it--it's just one joint! He's got fifty more shoved at the bottom of his sock drawer, right next to a handful of things she never wanted to know about her brother's sex life.

Or, at least, that's what she tells Matty. He's not impressed.

"You can't just go walking around with that on your person, Debs!" He runs his fingers through his hair. She loves when he does that.

“Why not?" She demands, leaning against the doorway to his living room/bedroom. "Ian and Lip used to do it all the time. I bet Carl does it."

He laughs drily. "Right and look at how well they're turning out."

She steps back like she's been slapped. This is not her first argument with Matty, and it most definitely won't be her last, but he's never brought her family into an argument. He knows the Gallagher problems are off limits.

"I just wanted to try it." And, ugh, there goes her voice, cracking like it used to when she was twelve. Debbie Gallagher is whining, and that's the last thing Gallaghers ever do.

 _Nobody fucks with the Gallaghers_.

With a straightened back and hard eyes, Debbie glares at her not-boyfriend. He looks anxious.

Good.

"I wanted to try it with you, Matty. Because I know you'll keep me safe. But I guess I'll just have to trust my brothers--my brothers, who, by the way? Are ten times more successful than you'll ever be."

Debbie doesn't know if she believes that. But she likes the look on Matty's face as she says it.

She doesn't like, however, the silence she meets as she leaves his apartment; he's not chasing after her like he used to.

Going to Mickey is her default reaction, probably because he won't judge her. So she trudges to The Alibi Room, grateful for a weekend to wallow before she has to go to school. She liked school until high school, whenever all the bullying traveled from the neighborhood to the classroom. Now she only really likes being home, or being with Matty.

Being with Matty has apparently decided to suck right now, too, however.

When Debbie arrives, Mickey is on his lunch break--sitting in the furthest corner of the room with a grilled cheese and a water in front of him. He’s glaring at the table so intently he doesn’t notice when she sits down.

In fact, he doesn’t even look at her until she takes his lighter, which lay innocently on the table, beside his unlit cigarette, sticks the joint between her lips, and lights it.

“What the hell are you doing, kid.” it comes out like a statement. His eyes are flat and unamused; she expected a bigger reaction out of him. Maybe he’s having a bad day..

 

“I stole one of your joints,” she explains.

Then she tries to inhale it. Tries being the operative word, because the second the smoke hits her lungs she’s coughing, resting her head on the table and wishing she were dead.

Why would anyone do this to themselves?!

Mickey laughs. “It gets better. Try again when you’re done coughing.”

So, finally, when her lungs stop convulsing, she grabs the roll of white paper from his fingers and tries inhaling again.

Nope. It’s just as horrible as it was the first time.

Now Mickey rolls his eyes and shoves it at her. “Try again.”

When she finishes inhaling, before she can cough, Mickey plugs her nose. “Now breathe in through your mouth.”

She does, and almost sighs at the small relief her lungs cry with when clean air sits beside the smoke inside her.

“Hold it for as long as you can,” he commands, finishing the joint with practiced motions.

Mickey stands, even as she’s still holding the smoke in her lungs. “Breathe in when it becomes too much again, keep holding until you can’t anymore. You’ll need it in you for as long as possible to actually feel high. Let me know when you feel it and don’t go anywhere.”

Go anywhere? Why would she want to go anywhere?

 

Being high? Awesome.

Standing in the rain while high? Even awesomer.

“It’s like all these raindrops are putting their fears on me. It’s okay, little raindrops, I can take care of you.” She’s not sure who she’s talking to. Was she with someone earlier?

There’s a noise behind her. Mickey.

“Of course you sound like a damn hippie when you’re stoned, Gallagher.” When she turns to look at him, he sticks out his hand. “Will you come inside before you catch a fucking cold and I get blamed for corrupting you?”

She moves to walk with him, but stops just in front of him. “Can we go see Ian? I want to see Ian.”

“I’m working, kid, I can’t.”

Normally she would nod along and go home. But she’s baked; she’s allowed to be a little more brash than usual. “Please--there are the same five people in there every day. I’m sure Jess can handle them, considering she’s been doing that way longer than you have.”

He’s quiet for a couple minutes. Maybe normally she would try to decipher his expression, but right now she doesn’t really care. Finally, he says. “Fine. Let’s go see Ian.”

About halfway to the Kash and Grab, after she’s been rubbing on her lip for twenty minutes and is holding Mickey’s hand because if she doesn’t she will fall over, Mickey speaks.

“Why do you want to see Ian anyway? You can see him when you get home.”

“Boys, Mickey,” she says. Gets distracted by the feel of the drizzle against her palm. Then, continues. “I need Ian’s help with my boy problems. Mandy hasn’t really been too interested in talking to me after I accidentally ripped a shirt she let me borrow.”

Mickey has always been weirded out by her friendship with Mandy. Before she can ask about it, though, he speaks. “You think I don’t know about boy problems?”

Now, Debbie snorts. “Nah. The only boy problem you’ve had is thinking Ian is too good for you. I don’t have that--hmm.”

Maybe that is her problem.

Is Matty too good for her?

Before she knows it, Mickey is two blocks ahead of her. She runs after him.

“Hey wait! Mickey! Maybe you can help!”

And when she reaches him and repeats herself, he snorts and shakes his head. “Fuck that. I’m taking you to your brother and leaving your stoned ass with him.”

The rest of the walk is quiet, mostly because every time she tries to talk Mickey looks like he wants to punch her. Not that he actually would.

She thinks.

When they get to the Kash and Grab, Linda is sitting at the counter.

“Where the hell’s Ian?” Mickey demands.

Linda is equally as harsh. “He didn’t show up to work today--if you see him tell him that if he ever does this again I’ll cut off his feet.”

 

IV.

_Frank passed out._

Carl is probably the dumbest Gallagher in existence; he texts that to Lip, of all people. And in typical Lip-fashion, his response is quick and useless.

_So?_

Frustrated, he calls Lip, who answers on the third ring. “So I need to know how to get him back home.”

Lip laughs. “Why would you want to do that? He doesn’t even live there anymore. If I don’t get to have a room, Frank definitely doesn’t get one. Leave him where he is.”

A part of him completely agrees with and understands Lip’s attitude. Sometimes he feels that way about Frank still. But spending all that time with him when he was dying, and then recovering from not-dying--he kind of gets his dad now. Not that he likes him. But he gets him.

Fiona’s calling it his “Debbie Moment.” It’s a two-year strong “Moment” he’s having.

Frank is groaning now, and Carl watches as the slowing drizzle wakes up his father. “Oh, hey, he’s waking up.”

“Congrats. Tell Fiona I’ll send the next payment on Thursday.” And then Lip hangs up. Useless fucker, his brother is.

His father rolls over, stares up the sky blankly, and then says: “You’re my favorite son, you know that, Calvin?”

Carl sits cross legged beside him on the sidewalk. “One: Carl. Two: That’s because I’m the only one who still pretends to care about your pathetic, substance-abusing ass.”

Before Frank can dignify that with a response, Lorraine calls him. “Hey baby.”

He’ll be fifteen in a month. He’s allowed to call his girlfriend whatever he wants. Hell, at fourteen Ian was fucking Mickey Milkovich in the back of the Kash and Grab; calling his girlfriend baby seems like child’s play compared to that.

“Hey Sweets,” she says as she smacks what is undoubtedly Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum. It’s the most disgusting thing anyone’s ever put in their mouth, and of course his girlfriend loves it. “My brother is doing a run tonight--he wants to know if you want in.”

Her brother, a guy he’s on vaguely good terms with named Austin. deals pots around the neighborhood. His biggest competitor is Kev and Lip during the summers, but other than that their neighborhood is pretty much his domain. Carl’s only been on two runs with Austin, but he usually only goes so he can score a free ounce to distribute in the Gallagher household.

“How much is he moving tonight?” Carl asks. Frank is starting to sit up, but Carl has lost interest for now; he figures he’s allowed to considering how little interest Frank has showed in him.

There’s some rustling and mumbling and then Lorraine says, “He says it’s a low-key run tonight--only eight or nine houses to stop at. Afterwards we can stop by The Alibi Room for food and we can leave him there if you want?”

“Sure, I’m down,” he stands and walks away from his grumbling, nonsensical father. In the background he hears Austin yell:

“See you later Shitwad! Stop corrupting my sister!” And then silence as Lorraine threatens to kill her sibling.

He’s sure he’s almost escaped his father--until Frank’s voice, as condescending and obnoxious as ever--is right in his ear.

“For as good as our swimmers are, Son, I can’t believe your Slice of the Week isn’t carrying my grandchild yet.”

Frank actually sounds genuinely surprised.

Carl is surprised he hasn’t figured out that he’s been dating the same girl for six months now. Has it been that long since he’s been home? He considers correcting his father, and then decides against it; it’s probably some weird bad ju-ju to tell Frank about a good thing in his life--it’s only a matter of time before Frank ruins it.

Karen Jackson: Exhibit A.

Lip probably would’ve fucked that one up on his own, anyway, but whatever. Carl likes his girlfriend, and he especially likes that his girlfriend has never met his father.

“I’ll just have to keep trying then, Dad.” And then he pushes Frank into a fence, cackling when the man tips over like one of those fainting goats.

He lights a cigarette as he stalks off, ignoring his dad’s squawking. Sometimes you’ve got to let them sink before they swim, right?

Well, Frank’s been sinking his whole life. He’ll be okay another day without Carl.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if I'll continue this, but I started rewatching Shameless after seasons 1-4 got put on Netflix, and this has been sitting in my Google Drive for two years. Interested in seeing more? Let me know!
> 
> Title taken from The Luck You Got by The High Strung (Shameless theme song). Chapter title taken from The Stars Just Blink For Us by Say Hi (a song I know due to a super nice Spotify playlist of all the Shameless OSTs--thank you internet!).


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